The Optimist

prologue

Hey, it's Mo again! So, I decided to start a new Jacob Perez (Princeton) story and I'm super excited! I will do my absolute best to keep you on your feet while reading this story!

. . .

"Can't you just be positive like the others?"

The boy across from me is practically begging me to be happier about the world around me. But I can't. I'm just an anti-social outcast who loves to be alone and read at any given chance. But since Tuesday, this boy with a sleek, curly Afro has ambled to my table everyday, lecturing to me about how I should go outside and make friends.. and be generally happy.

He sounds exactly like my parents, but he never tells me why I should go outdoors for once.

I sit at the lunch table, a book huddled in my left hand and an untouched apple in the other. I feel his presence as soon as I turn the page to the second to last chapter.

I roll my eyes and continue to reading Crossed, the thrilling sequel to my all time favorite novel, Matched. He sits across from me, smiling like a homeless woman who uses her charm to get scraps of food and a few coins. Then he silently scoots his lunch toward me.

"It's Frito Burrito Friday." He smiles.

I ignore his offer of the school's vague lunch and snatch my book into my arm, afraid it'll be ruined as the tilted milk cartoon on the hard plastic red tray leans, and hope the slightly frozen contents inside the container won't drain all over it. Unfortuately, the school has frozen milk and rock hard blocks of ice flavoried with orange as our orange juice.

"Tell me what it is." He says, shifting in his chair. I'm starting to get the impression that he's like the annoying younger brother who always chews loudly on his gum and enjoys playing pranks on his older sister.

And that older sister is me.

"Tell you what?" I say. I don't think I say it loud enough, but I'm almost sure he heard it clearly. My throat is dry and I'm tempted to grabbed the milk from his tray, but I don't.

"About the book. How does it make you feel? Any sorts of happiness? Because nothing else seems too." He smiles, glancing at the book.

He sounds generally concerned when he asks that, but it's none of his businness about the way this book makes me feel. Yeah, I feel the same way every time: intrigued, but he doesn't--and won't--have to know. Why doesn't he just leave already? We're opposites, like two magnets in a circuit; we don't attract to each other, no matter how hard you push us together.

He obliviously doesn't get the hint that I wanna be alone--and finish this book--because he doesn't let up tying to make conversation despite my lack of communication. Instead, he clears his throat, plastering a genuine smile on his cream tanned face.

I begin to hate him and his many questions and try my hardest to read the last paragraph, trying to get me to see the world through his eyes. A happy, perfect world where everything is going right, and nothing can bring you down. Has he completely given up thought of the bad people in the world? Murderers, rapists, criminals, the list goes on.

Probably, if you ask me.

"Why aren't you happy?" He asks. I pick at the loose plastic covering the book and look at him as he returns the favor with a perforate glare.

"What impression did I give you to believe I'm not happy?" I ask, dodging his question with one of my own.

"For one, you don't smile." He chuckles. "And your head, always stuck in a book." He says. I don't feel hurt when he says that, I just want to read. I almost smile, for once, finding his joke (actually any joke) funny. Yes, all I wanna do is read about fictional people's happy lives and crappy love stories, but he thinks that I'm unhappy.

"I'm not unhappy. And I just read," I say. "A lot."

He pulls his lunch tray back, sighing. He picks up the tilted milk cartoon and sets it straight before unfolds it, taking a sip of the chocolatey beverage. I crinkle my nose in disgust and set the book flat on the table. If he has the questions, I have the answers.

"Well, reading is always fun." He says. The optimist trait he carried plays the biggest role in his reputation of the school. Everyone knows him as the best advice giving, counselor like friend. Feeling sappy? Talk to Jacob. Bombed your math test? Talk to Jacob. Shall I go on?

"It is. And I'd like to do it alone." I say, hoping he'll get the hint. He hadn't ask any questions, which I was partially grateful for. He stands up with ease and smiles, pulling a five dollar bill from his Jean pocket and tossing it to me. I stare at him in confusion as he leans over, pushing it next to my book.

I don't want his money.

"Please." He begs. "If you're going to be angry at the world, at least have some money."

I push the crumpled, green paper back to him and raise my eyebrows. "Haven't you ever heard the term "Money doesn't buy happiness'"? I say. I want to smile, but I won't show him that his little social hour with me--which happened to be my lunch time--actually makes me want to talk, but only to him. It feels odd.

"You're right." He says. He confuses me. Should I be intrigued at his lack of communication or be happy that he's finally leaving? But all he does is turn around and walk away with that smirk still plastered on his face.

I sigh, and read to myself. Finally.